


more subtle than any beast

by Laylah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cults, M/M, Mind Control, Oviposition, Snakes, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 17:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21140699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: Ben gets himself in trouble in a small town and has to make a run for it. He gets lost, then gets found...and then really wishes he hadn't.





	more subtle than any beast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/gifts).

The crack of a rifle rings out and a puff of dust bursts on the road just a few feet away. Ben tries to push himself faster, his legs aching, the stitch in his side threatening to bend him double. The townsfolk behind him are yelling at the shooter to try again. He'll never make it all the way to the revival before they catch him.

To the left of the road there's just wide-open farmland, but the right—Ben turns, scrambling down the slope and into the trees. He's making a hell of a lot of noise, crunching through underbrush, but he can hear the town posse crashing after him. He keeps running, deeper into the wood.

He loses his footing and goes down hard when the ground slides under him—just under the dry leaves and pine needles it's mud, black and slick, even though there hasn't been rain around these parts for near a month.

Before he can push himself to his feet to keep going, he realizes he doesn't hear pursuit anymore. "—goin' into the damn swamp!" one of the men is saying, loud and blustery. "It ain't safe!"

"Nobody's askin' you to," someone else answers, calmer. "Little weasel ain't worth it. We'll pick him up when he comes out."

They keep talking, in lower voices, so Ben can't pick out the words. But he figures he heard the important part: they're not coming in after him. If he can get himself oriented and circle around north of the revival tent, he can sneak back and talk Pa into leaving town early. He'll probably get a hiding for _interfering with the Lord's business_ but he'd rather get a hiding than a shotgun wedding or a hemp necktie, which are the things he'd be like to get from the town's menfolk.

It's not like he was forcing that girl to do anything! She was just as excited about it as he was. Truth told that's probably half of what has her father so mad, that he could make a good girl go looking for trouble. Still, Ben's a good few years away from having to settle down and find a wife, and when he does he doesn't think he wants a middling-pretty girl from the middle of nowhere who's easily distracted by a wink and a smile. So he'd better get moving before one of those guys decides it's worth the trouble to come in the swamp and flush him out.

It was going on four when Ben got interrupted with his hand up sweet Rebecca's skirt, and sundown's somewhere after six, so he should have plenty of time. He picks his way a little deeper into the wood, until he can't hear his pursuers' voices at all anymore, and then turns north. Left, anyway. He's pretty sure that's north.

The trees get denser as he walks, and the ground gets softer, water starting to seep up around his shoes with each step. He tries to change course back toward the road after a while but he seems to have gone deeper into the wood than he thought, and the ground doesn't get any more solid underfoot. Least he's well and truly lost his followers.

But it looks like he's well and truly lost himself, too. The water's turning into actual pools, snaky ribbons of dark between the trees, and the footing's just more and more treacherous. The light's getting dimmer, and those sound like nightbirds calling in the distance. How the hell did he get so turned around?

If he just picks a direction and sticks with it he'll have to get out eventually, he's pretty sure. Better than just sitting here waiting for night to fall, anyway. He looks around, chooses where the trees seem thinnest, and heads that way.

And after a few minutes it seems to be working. The sky overhead is going purple, and that's a problem, but the trees are thinning out enough that he can _see_ the sky, so that's something. Even if there's still too much water—one bad step has Ben sinking ankle-deep into muck under wet leaves and dark water, and using some language Pa wouldn't approve of as he pulls his way back out again. But there's a break in the trees just up there, he's so close—

A break in the trees, sure, but just cause the ground's completely swamped, smooth water reflecting the sky and the skeletons of bare branches. "_Hell_," Ben says, with feeling.

Someone chuckles, and he realizes there's a man sitting on a stump at the edge of the water, idly holding a fishing rod and smirking just a touch as he looks over at Ben. "Careful, now, no call to go insulting a body's home just cause you're lost."

"I'm not—you _live_ out here?" Maybe that means the man can help him out.

"Oh, I didn't mean me," the stranger says, putting down his rod. "I mean little brother, there." He points, and what looked like just a stick floating on the water suddenly comes clear, as it opens its mouth wide enough to show off white gums and long needle fangs.

Ben stumbles backward so fast he falls, splashing in the water. The stranger gets up and wades over, totally unconcerned, to pick up the cottonmouth off the surface like it's nothing. He's tall and lanky, with long stringy black hair and raggedy clothes that seem just a hair too big for his frame. He ought to just look like a dirty hillbilly, the kind of nobody that ain't even worth ministering to, but for some reason he's got a presence to him that makes Ben think of starving papist saints.

"He ain't gonna harm you none," the stranger says, as the cottonmouth winds between his hands. "Just a child of the Lord like anyone else."

"You're crazy," Ben says. He's seen a man have to get his leg cut off after a cottonmouth bite. Nobody sensible wants to _hold_ one.

"Might be I heard that a time or two," the stranger agrees placidly. "But you're in need of a friend right now, aren't you?"

Ben pulls himself to his feet with a hand on the trunk of a scraggly pine. "I guess I might be."

The stranger nods. "Ain't easy getting across the swamp at night, but I got someplace warm and dry you can wait for sunup."

"Your, uh, 'little brother' ain't coming along, is he?" Ben asks.

"Naw, he got his own comfortable place to head back to," the stranger says. "C'mon." He picks up his fishing rod and a battered old lantern; when he turns it on, the light makes Ben realize just how dark it's gotten. The light hollows out his cheeks and shines in his eyes and it's hard to look away from them. After a minute he nods in satisfaction and turns away. "This way."

Ben starts walking after him. It's the only thing he can do, isn't it? His clothes are wet and cold, the owls have started calling to each other in the trees, and the lantern up ahead is the only landmark he can follow.

"Never did catch your name," Ben says as he follows the stranger through the trees.

"Where have my manners gone?" The stranger's voice seems to float on the air. He looks back over his shoulder and smiles quick and sharp. "The name's Nahash."

That sounds a bit foreign, but this is no time to bring it up. "Nice to meet you," Ben says, even though all things considered he'd rather he hadn't. "I'm Benjamin. Ben."

Nahash nods. "Good name. Strong." He keeps walking, and that seems to be the end of the conversation.

They walk through the dark and the wet for a while. Ben stubs his toes on roots more than once, tree branches pulling at his clothes, and he's starting to think he made a mistake going after that pretty piece of tail in the first place. He sure did get himself in plenty of trouble.

Finally another light comes clear ahead of them, and then the trees thin to reveal a lonely little house with a lamp in the front window. Nahash steps up onto a battered wooden walkway and Ben follows him. The stable footing is almost strange after that trek through the swamp.

There's a man sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, rocking slowly, not really looking at them, hand resting on a substantial belly. Nahash nods to him but doesn't stop to chat, just opens the door and gestures for Ben to follow him inside.

Inside there are three people sitting around a little table, holding hands like they're saying grace, their voices a soft murmur that trails off when the door opens. The two women are both big with child, and the man has such a belly on him it almost looks like he is too.

"Don't let me interrupt evening prayer," Nahash says. "Ben here just got himself lost in the swamp, so I offered to put him up."

"Praise the lord," murmurs one of the women, but none of them look up and all of them have that glazed, distant look.

Nahash sets his fishing rod down by the door and beckons to Ben. "Come on, now. Let's get you comfortable."

Of course. That's what they're here for, isn't it? It doesn't matter if the prayer circle seems off. That's not something Ben needs to worry about.

Nahash leads him into a back room with a bed and a dresser, and sets his lantern down on the dresser. The light's dim and golden and it shines in his eyes, focused and hypnotic. "Now. You're a religious fellow, aren't you, Ben?"

"Sure," Ben says uneasily. He's not sure he really _believes_ in much, to be quite honest. He's seen enough of how Pa talks his way around the Bible and makes it say whatever he wants, and he's sure never actually felt the Spirit in a service. But you don't just deny the Lord to people. He wants to give the right answer.

"Good boy," Nahash says. Ben's staring at him, unable to look away from his shining eyes. "It's time to give thanks to the Lord for bringing us together. You know what you need to do to talk to the Lord, don't you?"

Ben does know. He's known that all his life. You want to talk to the Lord, you want to pray, then you need to get on your knees.

He does it. He can feel how uncomfortable his clothes have gotten, wet and cold, his shoes soggy. But he can take care of that later. After he's done what Nahash wants. That feels important, for reasons he can't put a finger on.

"That's right," Nahash says, low and smooth. "You want to give thanks to the Lord, you show Him your submission. Down on your knees, open and willing, ready to receive His grace." That sounds wrong but Ben can't pull his thoughts together enough to protest.

When Nahash unbuttons his pants, Ben wants to pull away, but he can't seem to make himself move. Nahash is holding him still somehow, this cold fear down his spine that he can't shake off. All he can do is watch, quiet and submissive like he's never been to any ritual of God, as Nahash pulls his cock out and brings it to Ben's lips. He doesn't want to do this. He's not going to help at all.

Nahash just digs his fingers into the hinge of Ben's jaw to force his mouth open, and stuffs his cock in there anyway. It's disgusting and sour-tasting and uncomfortably big in his mouth, and this is _wrong_ but he's too petrified to move.

"You're lucky, Ben," Nahash goes on, and his words are maybe just a little more pleasant to pay attention to than his cock. "We're blessed to be here, free of strife, free of fear, living side by side with our Lord. So many sinners never get that chance. But here—it's like we're living in the garden, Ben. You understand what that means?"

Ben makes a noise around the flesh in his mouth, a protest with no words, his tongue weighed down. Something is touching his leg, sliding up under the hem of his pants, and he can't kick out to make it stop.

"It's a _gift_," Nahash tells him. "You're not grateful for it yet but you'll learn. The will of the Lord is a beautiful thing, and all you have to do is learn to submit to it."

There's a harsh tearing sound, wet cloth parting, and Ben can feel the air against his skin as his pants and underthings both are torn away. He tries again to struggle and just barely manages to move, to pull away from Nahash just the first inch or two.

"Now, don't fight it," Nahash says, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him forward again. "You need this sacrament to be ready to receive Him."

Ben gags as Nahash's cock hits the back of his throat, tears springing to his eyes. That cold, sliding touch is exploring more of his body and he can't do anything but tremble and whine. This is all wrong, nothing even close to holy about it, but it's more real than anything he's ever felt at a revival. Nahash is punishing his throat, fucking it hard and relentless, while whoever—or _whatever_—is behind him just exposes him more and more. He'd beg for mercy if he could. He'd pick himself up and run into the swamp if his limbs would listen to him.

He can't do any of that, and he can't even spit it out when Nahash finally spills a load in his mouth. He _tries_, struggles to get free, does his best not to swallow, but Nahash just holds him there with no mercy or hesitation and his mouth full of bitter heat and eventually he can't hold back the reflex anymore. He swallows the nasty stuff and it feels like moonshine, hot down his throat and then weak all through his limbs.

Nahash lets go of him and steps back, and Ben pitches forward onto his hands and knees. "Oh my Lord, You who have been so generous to us here, offering us Your protection and Your bounty, welcome this young man into Your coils. Fill him up with Your grace so he may learn to rejoice with us in being one of Your chosen vessels."

"No," Ben pleads through the sticky hoarseness in his throat. "This ain't right, I don't want to—"

"Nothing good ever came of fighting the Lord's plan for you," Nahash says gently, just as something thick and cold and smooth wraps around Ben's ankle.

Ben cracks. He babbles, he pleads, he sobs, and Nahash just kneels in front of him with a hand on his head, _praying_ to the awful thing wrapping its serpentine length around his limbs and torso. It's a heavy weight on his back, and curled just too tight for comfort around his ribs, and there's no mercy to be had anywhere.

The coils around him flex, pulling his legs wide, and a smooth length slides into the crack of his ass. It ripples, so something emerges from the smooth scales and nudges at his asshole, and Ben _knows_ what that must be but he doesn't want to think it.

All the coils wrapped around him constrict at once, and Ben screams as the snake monster's cock drives into his ass. It feels huge and wrong, stretching him open unnaturally and taking up space inside him where nothing should go. When his voice cracks and fails, Nahash is still praying, _encouraging_ this thing to rail him.

Nobody comes looking, even though there were plenty other people in the house. They don't care what's happening to him in here. Maybe they know. The cock shoved in him pulses, swelling and unnatural. Will he be able to feel it when that thing comes? Could it possibly be enough to distract him from the way this burns?

There's another ripple through the snake's main body and then it's rubbing something up against his balls and into his crack, where he's already hurting. "No," Ben says, desperately trying to make his limbs move so he can get free of this awful thing, "no, no, you can't, it won't fit, stop—"

It feels like it splits him right in half when the second one buries itself beside the first. His skin goes hot and cold all over and the room spins, and his words just turn into a desperate, agonized whine.

"Gracious Lord, show our new brother Your benevolence," Nahash murmurs, as if there's anything gracious or benevolent at all going on here. "Help him to accept Your gifts."

"Son of a bitch," Ben grits out, and he's not sure if he means Nahash or the damn snake or both. Its cocks throb inside him and its coils constrict in the same rhythm, his whole body trapped and possessed by this thing.

Then one of the pulses—not quite thrusts, but similar enough—makes him feel bloated afterward. He tries to squirm, hoping that wasn't what he thinks it is, afraid he's getting a gut full of monster come. This is _sick_, and he still can't make himself move enough to fight. His arms are trembling from holding him up.

Another ripple through the body, another awful bloating pulse, and he's even more over-full—and it feels like something _solid_ pushing further into him, deep inside where he should never be touched. "Make it stop," he pleads, hopeless. "Please, make it stop."

The snake's coils tighten around him briefly in a hideous embrace that threatens to crush the breath from him, and when it lets him take another breath it's filling him up more, making his guts cramp and ache. He can't take this but he can't stop it, even as the swelling inside feels like it could split him open. All he can do is cry and gasp out pleas that no-one heeds, and when the world finally spins around him and everything goes dark, he's grateful.

* * *

He comes to lying on his side, shivery, the snake gone. His asshole still aches, pain throbbing sharper on his heartbeats. It feels like it's never going to close back up after getting ruined like that.

Nahash rolls him onto his back, and he has to lift his knees up to be able to stand it. His belly is so swollen, the skin drum-tight. Nahash's hands probe at him, feeling up all that tight fullness. "Our Lord has blessed you, Ben. You got at least a dozen eggs to carry here. Gonna bring so much new glory into the world."

"Get them out," Ben pleads. "For the love of God, get them out."

"Sshh," Nahash says, brushing Ben's hair back off his face like he's just a child with a fever in need of soothing. "They'll come out when they're ready. You _do_ know how babies happen, don't you?"

"Not like _this_!" He doesn't want this to be possible. There has to be some more sensible explanation. The weight in his belly is so solid and strange. 

"Tell you what," Nahash says. "I'm gonna go get Caleb and let him talk with you a bit. He was just about as upset as you when he was gifted his first clutch, and by now he loves each one more than the last. He can help you plenty if you just give him a listen."

Ben doesn't say anything. It hasn't helped so far. He lies there on his back staring up at the ceiling as Nahash leaves the room, his hands on the floor at his sides because he can't bear to put them on his belly. Messing around with Rebecca What's-her-name that afternoon seems like a far-off dream.

He closes his eyes, and he can feel the snake-devil's coils wrapped around him again, holding him still, holding him spread. Making sure he knows: he can't get away.


End file.
